


Wrong Direction

by ayakuro (LemonSchwaySchway)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood, Cannibalism Puns, M/M, alternate uses of will graham's empathy, intentional pacing manipulation, mentions of gore and corpses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 15:12:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1231126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LemonSchwaySchway/pseuds/ayakuro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>NCS Special Operative Will Graham goes undercover for the last time. After being rejected by his fellow agent, Alana Bloom, he's all too eager to leave on a reconnaissance mission in Hong Kong to investigate a human trafficking ring. There's far more to it than that, however, hidden behind the treacherously charming face of Hannibal Lecter, current Management Head of Operations at BioMediShen medical supply company. Will's task of looking into BioMediShen's black market relations take the back burner when he gets swept up in a much more dangerous game of hide and seek with himself, his fake persona, and the dangerous former Dr. Lecter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrong Direction

**Author's Note:**

> Also known as ayakuro from LJ.
> 
> My first Big Bang fic ever! Admittedly it's a bit more of a mini bang, being only about 11K words, but it was a hell of a ride to write and edit and worry over. I want to say thanks to everyone who helped out and supported me, and especially to my artist, Jenn (lick_j)! Her art is linked at the bottom of the fic so please check it out!
> 
> I know I've only written for the Hannibal kink meme before, but I certainly wanted to try my hand out at a longer and more involved story for this fandom. It's also done wonders for getting me off my butt and actually finishing other things too.

Alana looks away and Will feels much like the floor has up and disappeared from beneath him.

He lets his fingers fall from where they were tangled in her hair and drops his gaze. He knew this was how it would go, though he’s slightly bitter over how she’d kissed him first, her lips soft and kind and beautiful like the rest of her. He won’t begrudge her for it of course; he thinks they both needed a taste so as to end this before it started. She steps back, her bottom lip caught between her teeth and the desire to kiss her again surges through him.

She opens her mouth to speak, but Will shakes his head and moves further away from her. “It’s alright, too much of me is hard to handle, I know.”

Her brow creases in the middle, the sides of her mouth her mouth turning down. “Will, you have to know I want this, I want you. But it’s not good. For either of us.”

Will grits his teeth, but only slightly. “And why should that matter Alana?”

“You know exactly why, don’t try to lay it on me.” Her voice is quiet, shades above a whisper, but the words have an edge he wasn’t expecting. He quickly realizes he probably deserved it, just a second too late. “I care for you Will, and I can see the care you have for me. I don’t want to hurt you, Jack’s done enough of that. And honestly, I don’t want you to hurt me.”

Will’s heart freezes in his chest. “You know I’d never-”

“Not on purpose, never, and almost certainly never physically, but it’s all too real a possibility. Will,” she starts, sliding the tips of her fingers slowly across his arm. Fond. “We’re the worst kind of accident waiting to happen. Far too much collateral damage.”

Will wants to say something, anything; something to get her to change her mind and stay, to wrap her arms around him and never let go the way he itches to do to her. But he holds himself back, his muscles tense beneath his skin and fingers aching with his restraint. Alana lets her hand fall and turns away from him.

“I’ll miss you Will. Good luck on this job, and keep in touch if you can, will you? I’ll come by tomorrow to pick up the dogs.” The words are said with forced calm, acting as the last straw to break the strings of their burgeoning connection, crushing them and their potential into dust. Will lets her walk away from him, her steps steady. Will lets her close the door to his little house without a sound.

“There’s a key under the mat,” he says to the empty room. It was unnecessary, she knows this, but saying it makes things seem better, separated perhaps. Normal.

Will turns and walks up to his bedroom, his pack of pups close at his heels.

***

Will’s awake four hours later, dawn still a ways off - partly out of necessity and partly due to the fact that he’s never been able to sleep much longer than that without waking up for one reason or another. His flight to Hong Kong leaves at 6 am, three long, long hours away, but Jack has his briefing file and his trip dossier.

He showers, dresses, and manages to eat in relative silence, making sure the dogs go out and come back in before he finally gathers up his lone suitcase and shoulder bag. He doesn’t know how long he’s supposed to be gone, there’s no real estimate, but the DOD has deeper pockets than anyone would suppose.

The case has five different suits in it anyway; it’s a good enough start.

Will pats every single one of his loyal retainers on the head before he leaves, whispering soothing words more important to him than to his dogs. He closes the door behind him and checks for the key under the mat with his foot. With one last look to his quiet little home, and the briefest of worries about whether he’d get back, Will climbs into his old truck and heads toward Dulles International in the pre-dawn light.

When he arrives, he parks in the short-term parking structure next to a dark SUV with tinted windows furthest from the elevator. Will shakes his head, glancing down at his watch to steady himself, his hands squeaking on the steering wheel as he gets out. Jack’s standing parallel to the hood ornament, looking like a mobster straight from an old noir film, camel coat and fedora included. His eyes are uncovered at least, and he’s stood up to his full height so Will allows himself to slump a little, catering to Jack’s ego in an effort to disguise how he’s staring at the buttons on Jack’s coat.

“Will,” Jack starts, his voice rough but not unkind, and he pulls a half-sized manila envelope from an inside pocket. Will wishes to roll his eyes, but resists.

“We’re not spies Jack,” Will says, his mouth turning up at the corners ever so slightly. Will still can’t look Jack straight in the eyes, but the dim yellow light of the structure mixed with the shadows cast on the round planes of his by his hat help to lessen the intensity.

Jack seems to ruffle at that, and stares straight at him. “You might as well be one. This is a dangerous assignment, and I want you treating it like one.”

“I remember the first seven times we had this conversation, Jack.” Will’s fake humor is gone and his voice is deflated. His ‘gift’ is not needed just yet, and it’s difficult to make Jack believe he’s anybody but himself. “I understand the severity of the situation.”

“See that you keep understanding it,” Jack grinds out, handing Will the envelope. “And Will, I need to know you can do this. If you can’t, you tell me immediately. We’ll get you out of there.” Jack pushes Will’s glasses up, the gesture close but not intimate, more paternal than anything. Will angles his stare at Jack’s nose.

“I’m fine Jack, who else could do this? You know how badly the CIA has been messing up lately, they're too visible.” Will doesn’t tell him that _no one’s_ right for this job, that leaving Alana here with his dogs and his students and his broken heart is the last thing he would ever want to do. It has to be done.

Jack doesn’t look completely satisfied, his eyes narrowed, and certainly not against the lightly warm breeze, but he lets it go. Will’s competent.

He can only hope his competence is enough.

Jack heads back to his car, his back echoing Alana’s from the night before. Will breathes twice, deep inhales to calm his roiling mind.  He tucks the dossier in his laptop case, picking up his luggage as he walks into the airport and hopes so much it's almost a prayer that this isn't how he leaves his home for good.

***

It's been three carefully spaced layovers and nearly twenty-eight hours when he steps foot in Hong Kong. The glare from the sunlight reflects off the polished steel and glass of the sprawling airport, briefly blinding him as he wanders out of the terminal. He heads towards customs with one deep breath and a setting of shoulders. He puts on his mask, the face of a cheerful yet ambitious young business relations expert, as he shuffles back through security and towards the baggage claim. Thankfully, his bag is one of the first off the plane, so he grabs it and makes his way to the line for taxis.

He hops into one as soon as he’s able, and give the driver the address Jack had written on a small slip of paper, smiling, but obviously not open to conversation. He switches from staring out the window and staring at the blank screen of his phone as they bypass the main island and head into the business district. In better times, he would have wanted, possibly, to wander out into the heart of such a place, but now the thought just sends his his eyebrows together and his heart into an agitated frenzy.

Alana might’ve enjoyed that… No matter though, he’ll have to give up on that. He has the sneaking feeling that he was getting too attached just because she’d cared about him, had been nice and nonjudgmental to him, but he pushes that away. He’s not ready to examine that part of himself, with her rejection still so fresh in his mind.

In fact, he doesn’t seem to have time for it anyway, because he’s at the large, towering structure of glass and marble that houses the BioMediShen supply company. He grabs his bag, pays for the drive along with a generous tip, and heads up the tall steps. He was told to come straight here, that the company would set him up for the duration of his stay. A lone receptionist sits in the middle of a cavernous lobby, and Will swallows, becomes William Jones from Johns Hopkins, just looking for his contract meeting.

“Hello, I’m William Jones, here to speak to… a Dr. Lecter?” Will says, his voice properly hesitant and slow, glancing at a business card that he’d found in the dossier. The receptionist levels him with a look that freezes him in place before she nods and he can breath again. She’s pretty, a study in pale contrasts, but she also seems dangerous in the way that doesn’t imply she could snap his neck, simply because she wouldn’t need to. She picks up a phone on the desk, one of what looks to be six, and types in a short extension. She makes short, agreeable sounds, finishing it off with something clipped in Mandarin.

As she sets the phone back in it’s cradle, she looks back up at Will. “Take the elevator to the 21st floor. Make your first right and follow the hall. Mr. Lecter will be waiting for you in the conference room.”

There’s not a hint of an accent in the stiff directions, but it takes her raising a perfectly-shaped eyebrow to get him moving.

Will hopes she took that as him being either ignorant to the way of Hong Kong languages or just plain struck by her beauty, because it was a sloppy move. He follows her directions though, going over the dossier mentally as the elevator shoots him to a meeting his was only prepared for in the most basest of senses.

BioMediShen was by all means a legitimate and profitable business on the surface, a medical supply company of the highest caliber, started and groomed by Lu Shen, currently living in the Chinese countryside at the age of 93, and made into the powerhouse it is today by his son, 62 year old Bruce Shen. Bruce doesn’t have a son, but has two daughters, the older one unmarried and living on the mainland, the younger one married to a young business start up that Bruce was training to take over. The company sold innovative, high quality products; and that garnered them huge revenue. Business was booming, so to speak.

But there was apparently a darker side to it. The company was supposedly the cover for a trafficking operation that shuttled women and children from south east Asia to customers in Europe, Africa, and the middle east. Which was why Will was here, pretending to be some guy from John Hopkins’ administration looking to renew an old contract and work out a new one for new technology.

The elevator dings his floor, and Will hefts both his briefcase and suitcase out and down the hall like the woman said. The conference room comes into view with frosted glass doors, a dark figure silhouetted against the light coming in from the exterior window. He opens the door carefully, in character, like he’d step on some toes by being too quick.

“Um, Dr. Lecter…?” Will gives, making his voice jitter slightly on the last word, feigning nerves. The inexperience is one of his trump cards. He even shaved for this mission, his face looking much younger than it had any right to without his smattering of beard. Lecter’s imposing shape doesn’t make it too hard of a leap though. The man’s suit could probably cut him if he wasn’t careful.

“Ah, Mr. Jones,” Lecter says, turning, his voice lilting and accented, far more than the Chinese secretary. Lecter certainly isn’t from Hong Kong. He walks around the conference table, laid out lengthwise from Will to the window, slowly edging into visibility without the stark contrast of the overcast day outside. He holds out a hand, and Will shakes it, too enthusiastic and appropriately American. “You’re here from John Hopkins, correct?”

Will nods, slipping more easily into the headspace of _Mr. Jones_. He may think the name is particularly unimaginative, but WIlliam Jones exists, at least in the world of cyberspace. The NCS does their job, so now it’s time for Will to do his. “We’re discussing the contract for the new model imaging machines, I’m sure you received all the documents and such.”

Lecter smiles, and it’s an odd thing; it appears honestly amiable, but there’s something about it. It doesn’t seem to reach his eyes… Eyes that are staring straight into his and Will has to breath in deep to keep away from the true him, stay as William Jones. He’s never been good with eyes, but Jones would have no such compunctions, especially as a young relations coordinator. Lecter’s most likely European of some sort, he’d have no issue with eye contact.

Indeed, he seems very attached to keeping Will’s eyes on his. Not his own on Will’s but certainly the other way around, captivating young William Jones and keeping him right where Lecter wants him. It’s unnerving, even as they begin to talk of simple preparations for setting up the contracts.

They make some cursory plans for meetings in the next week, Lecter never looking from Will’s face, and Will attempting the same in return. When Lecter finally turns his gaze from WIll, he sags slightly, relieved. Lecter checks a pocket watch and stands up, offering Will another one of those sharp smiles. “I feel this is enough for today, you must be exhausted from all that traveling.”

Will shakes his head, though only to be polite; they didn’t end this a moment too soon, he can feel his eyelids drooping severely. Jet lag should honestly be constituted as torture, but he keeps that to himself.

“As the one you’ll be dealing with most,” Lecter says, pushing in his chair, “I offer you a room in my home, to save on expenses, since I’m sure the hospital has little to spare for those to whom they relegate their administrative duties.” Will is only slightly in awe of the most elegant way anyone has ever told him he looked poor, but takes it as the courtesy he knows it’s supposed to be and smiles as he stands himself.

“That’s very kind of you Dr. Lecter, thank you. It’s true, this trip a little tight when it comes to its pocket book. And I hear that your cooking is amazing.” Will either said the wrong thing or the best thing, for Lecter’s smile takes on a softer edge despite it’s transformation into a smirk.

Lecter bows his head a little towards the door, and Will moves to open it. “I’ve certainly been told it’s to die for.” Will chuckles and they file out, back to the elevator. Lecter takes him down to the employee parking garage in the basement and directs him to a black Mercedes that makes Will’s wallet shrivel just at the sight. Lecter directs Will to the passenger side with a small flourish of his hand; Will tries not to sigh as he settles into the rich leather.

They don't talk much on the drive, Will giving as much effort as the sparse small talk required, but Lecter seems content with his mediocre conversation and the following silence. Will leans his head against the window and doesn't realize he dozed off until he's being lightly shaken awake.

"I was going to offer some dinner," Lecter says, quietly amused, "but I fear you'll barely make it to the guest rooms, let alone stay awake long enough to dine with me." Will shakes his head, about to protest, but a wave of exhaustion crashes over him and he relents. He doesn’t even make a fuss when Lecter takes his suitcase up to the house - mansion really, but Will's too tired to appreciate that fact at the moment - and gently leads him  to his rooms.

Lecter sets his suitcase down by the door of the little parlor that apparently leads into the small guest wing of the house and turns to him one last time. "You're free to partake in anything, and do ask if you need something else. I'll make sure to make you a large breakfast in the morning. We'll be going in together, if that's all right."

Well, it makes sense, Will thinks, why wouldn't he be okay with it, but he just nods and then Lecter is gone. Will shuffles into the attached bedroom, loosening his tie, but doesn't get much farther than toeing off his shoes before he's face down in the soft pillows,  asleep.

***

Will jolts awake to the knock on his door.

For a moment, he's dizzy and suspicious of his unfamiliar surroundings, the lack of dog in his face, but it only takes a moment for him to relax, slipping back into mild-mannered William Jones, not agent, or even professor, Will Graham, just before Lecter enters the room.

"I apologize, but you had yet to come down. I thought I'd check to make sure nothing had gotten you between the sitting room and your bed. I have an iron, if you require it?" Lecter adds, eyeing Will's rumpled suit.

Will wants to consider Lecter’s odd humor, but he's already learning that it's mostly for his benefit, to make this smoother for him. "Oh, no, no, I have more suits than this, but thank you." He certainly doesn't stand up to Lecter in his clothes, but Lecter oozed a sense of wealth that Will would never attain, even if he became the richest man in the world.  It was inherent, captivating, and something he really shouldn't think about while looking like a distressed cat in Lecter’s house.

Lecter quirks his lips in something a little more than his impersonal smile and Will starts straightening himself out. Lecter turns to leave, but speaks before he closes the door behind him. "I have breakfast downstairs, when you're ready. We'll leave at 8:30." And then all that's left of Lecter are his footsteps leading away. It's almost unnerving, Lecters ability to move without much preamble. It'll be harder to keep a steady eye on him.

Will glances at the clock, sighing and dropping his head back onto the bed when he sees the time. 6:24. So Lecter is the early rising type. Will usually is, himself, but jet lag is hindering his adjustments.

Will showers, shaves, and dresses in all of twenty minutes, takes another ten to carefully pack his briefcase for the day - to check the few dossier pages that were necessary to keep and make sure they're right in their small compartment, where he wants them - and then he's heading out through the parlor.

Only to remember that he doesn't know where he's going.

Lecter said downstairs... so he'll find the downstairs, potentially working out a basic floor plan of the mansion at the same time. Will wanders a bit, finding the stairs a lot faster than he'd planned. He actually goes too far, is about to open a door that he belatedly supposes must be the basement when Lecter comes up to his back, sets a hand on his shoulder, and says, calmly yet forcefully,  "Mr. Jones, the dining room is this way. Forgive me for not showing you around."

Will turns around and Lecter is close, very close, so he nods at Lecter’s nose. "I'm sorry for just getting lost in your home." Lecter shakes his head and slides his hand down Will's back, pushing him gently away from the door. Will files that away for later, but lets Lecter lead him easily. Will speculates this invasion of personal space should feel more like just that, but Lecter’s hand is warm through his suit jacket and lingers as Lecter drags it away when they reach the open dining room. Will doesn’t think about, like he should, instead blaming it on raw rejection and his recent solitude.

He enjoys it, only a little.

Lecter still disturbs him slightly, in a way that Will can't actually name, but he seems innocuous enough for now.  Plus he serving Will the single fanciest breakfast he's ever encountered, which proves effective in waking up his stomach and distracting his mind. They eat quietly, this obviously being a theme with Dr. Lecter, but Will prefers to lose only a few manners while being Jones. Loud, rude Americans distress even him.

After breakfast, Lecter pours them both coffee from a contrived, golden contraption. It's amazing and Will refrains from asking for another cup just out of time constraints. He points to his watch and Lecter nods, directing them both back to the garage and to his Mercedes. Lecter puts on a pair of leather driving gloves that Will hadn’t noticed and also think are kind of cliche, but he doesn’t say anything as they drive.

Lecter doesn’t actually live very far from his work; Will knows they never left the island they’re on and guess it’s just to keep all Hong Kong’s wealth in one place, like a fortress almost, set on the dark blue waters of the South China Sea. The arrive in about twenty minutes with minimal traffic for a Tuesday morning, and Lecter leads him back up to the floor where’d they’d met the previous day. Undoubtedly Lecter’s office is on this floor, and Will considers whether he’ll have to invent some excuses to be able to gather his information. He leaves that for later though, as Lecter ushers him out of the elevator and to his office.

“You’re welcome to work in the conference room we met in yesterday until it’s needed Mr. Jones, as well as here in my office or the floor lounge.” Will nods at him, smiling in an eager way that he knows makes him look much younger than he’d ever really felt. “Don’t hesitate for anything you feel is necessary, and I look forward to the week.” Hannibal’s voice has a certain smooth edge to it that’s both unsettling and enticing all at once, but Will doesn’t let on to his acknowledgment of this and nods.

Will holds up his briefcase. “I’ll be in the conference room for now then, thank you Dr. Lecter.” Lecter smiles at him, charming and practiced.

As he’s leaving the office, Will adds, “I’ll be drafting the new contract, come tell me if there’s anything you want specified initially.” Lecter dips his head that Will takes as both agreement and his signal to leave. Lecter doesn’t converse much to begin with, but he definitely seems like the ‘do not disturb while working’ type.

Will settles at the conference table, in Lecter’s seat from the first moment they met, with his back, and his laptop screen, to the window and Hong Kong’s once again overcast skyline. He emails an analyst to send him a basic contract and then spends the next few hours instead drafting a plan of action and working out just what he needs to bug, burying the work in proxy servers and encryptions.

Jack sends him an innocent, three word email from a nondescript address and Will replies like he always does, noticing the words don’t have their usual air of reassurance in this particular text.

_I’m just fine._

***

Lecter comes for him at one in the afternoon, just as his stomach begins to growl. Will had spent the last half hour considering the sparse amount of people located on this floor through the strategically placed glass dividers. No one had noticed him, let alone engaged him in anything resembling conversation. It’d had made this portion of his job easy, but would prove to be an obstacle later. Will works to come off as more personable, and hopefully not one to fear or disregard as only interested in working with Dr. Lecter, but it has to wait when Lecter invites him to lunch.

“I don’t normally eat out,” Lecter admits as they head to back down to his car. They’d passed plenty of people on the way down here, but Lecter must be quite high up as he’d rarely responded to any of them besides an older man in a suit even more expensive looking than Lecter’s, though perhaps slightly less tailored, and the secretary. Will notes how many of the employees seem to be of Asian descent, understandably, but also the large number who seem to be European or even American. Still no one acknowledges him, but then he hadn’t given them much reason too, paying close attention to the ins and outs of the company building.

“Oh?” Will says, getting into the car and prompting more of an explanation at the same time. Hannibal pulls on his gloves and starts the car.

“Yes, I much prefer to prepare my own meals. I take great pleasure and pride in it, though I felt getting out of the office would appeal to you.”

Will looks at the dashboard before answering, his voice nervous. “Yeah, I’m not really the belle of the ball or anything.” The joke is nothing _Will_ would ever say, but William seems the type to enjoy his Americanisms, especially in such a familiar yet foreign place such as Hong Kong. Hannibal smirks in response.

“They’re very efficient when it comes to work, our employees. It’s a necessary quality. The work is quite demanding,” Hannibal says, guiding the car out of the basement structure.

“Oh, yes, how international is your company exactly?” Will’s much better at keeping up smalltalk when it’s necessary to fill silence and he’s not passing out halfway through. Hannibal seems inclined to humor him anyway, and getting into his good graces wouldn’t hurt. Especially since he seems so… tightly bound. Dr. Lecter is a mask, just as Will’s is, but in such a different way that those without Will’s particular insight would be utterly fooled. He wonders just what Lecter keeps close to his chest, and what he’s buried even deeper.

“We have clients and manage offices on every continent. Except, of course, Antarctica, but many of the the research endeavors of the last thirty years have had sponsorship from our company. All kinds of things to be learned there,” Lecter says with a smirk as they wind through downtown.

“Quite the operation, then,” Will supplies as a placeholder. It’s a fantastic cover, really; a billion-dollar, legitimately beneficial business could hide a lot of things, especially in the murkiness of international law and transparency requirements. “We knew of your quality through experience, obviously. But’s it’s definitely something different to experience it first hand, coming from just a single person, of course.”

“I'm glad you approve, Mr. Jones. We strive for excellence and satisfaction of customers in every way, including our hospitality,” Hannibal adds as he parks in another underground garage, under yet another absolutely blinding office building. Hannibal wordlessly directs him up and out of the skyscraper’s glittering lobby to a far shorter and yet still more expensively gilded building.

It turns out that it's a French restaurant.  The kind where, unless you speak French, you can't actually read the menu, so Will lets Lecter take the lead. Lecter converses with the waiter,  _in French_ , and Will is not surprised. He's certainly not from France though, so he ponders Lecter's nationality, not for the first time, while Lecter finishes up.

"Do you speak any foreign languages Mr. Jones?" Lecter sys as a reintroduction to conversation as he folds his napkin in his lap and tucks his tie into his jacket.

"No, never had the head for it. Took a few years of Spanish in high school, but it never stuck." It's true; Will Graham might speak Arabic, but William Jones was not linguistically talented. Either way, French had been out of his repertoire from the get go.

They mince words a bit longer, until whatever Lecter had ordered for them arrives, and Will is both appalled and intrigued by what is set down in front of him. It turns out to be some fancy pork and greens kind of thing, and they really don’t talk much.  Will feels like he should at some points, but there’s wine, and Lecter doesn’t seem to need much other than the food and his thoughts to occupy him. Will never sees him with a free moment unless Lecter’s taking him somewhere. Otherwise he’s always in his office or meeting with someone else in places Will’s not expressly invited to.

Lecter denies the offered after lunch sweet, instead ordering another glass of wine and turning his eyes on Will. “How are you enjoying your stay, Mr. Jones.”

Will puts on an appropriately awed and thankful face. “It’s already been fantastic Dr. Lecter, no small thanks of course to you and your hospitality. When I was given this assignment, I can tell you I was not expecting the experience of a lifetime out of _work_.”

Lecter smirks into his sip of wine. “That’s fantastic to hear. What’s wealth if you don’t have opportunities to share it, hmm?” Will wouldn’t know, but he shrugs in the most carelessly American way he can manage.

“I’m just thankful you’ve chosen to share them with me. You really don’t have too, as I have enough to have a hotel. Though, admittedly, your home is nicer than any hotel I could afford.” Will smiles brightly.

“No, Mr. Jones, your patronage is my and my company’s pleasure. Having you here is quite the treat.” Lecter does that thing with his mouth again, like a smile but much too sharp. Will swallows.

“So, what exactly besides general management do you do Dr. Lecter?” Will asks, staring at the cream puff being placed in front of him. He doesn’t remember ordering it and he’s not particularly fond of sweets, but he looks enthused anyway.

Lecter takes a long moment before answering, sipping at his wine and not quite meeting Will’s eyes, though definitely captivated by his face. It’s almost cause to blush, but Will pulls the oblivious card and does nothing. “I manage the liaisons between branches of the company, and I, as you know, I’m the one presented with contracts. Despite my lack of legal background, Mr. Shen puts much trust in my judgement and is usually quite pleased with the results. I control what goes to Mr. Shen personally; what I approve, he will generally approve as well.”

Will nods and reaches for an appropriate Americanism. “You’re the ‘trial by fire’ for all of us interested in the company, then?”

“You could very well say that. It’s benefitted the company well enough.”

Will’s waves a jaunty hand, hoping to come off light and slightly tipsy from the meal’s wine. “Don’t be so modest Dr. Lecter, it doesn’t suit you.”

“Ah, but Mr. Jones,” Hannibal says, low, from just above the rim of his wine glass. “Hubris is so very unattractive.”

***

Wednesday is just as uneventful as Tuesday, though Will has more time to “stretch his legs” after lunch with Lecter and uses it to the fullest. He learns the man they’d passed yesterday was the current CEO, Bruce Shen himself, and wonders at his apparently near-constant expression of solemnity. Will knows from reports that Bruce speaks fluent English and though Lecter is no where near his second in command, is usually the one seen with him most. He finds it odd that he’s only seen him once, but gives it time. He’s here until the next Monday, and given quite the leash in such a high profile company, so Will doesn’t doubt he’ll learn more about that particular gossip subject in due time.

It’s that night, while Will loiters in the kitchen while Lecter plates the the main course ( _plates_ , like he’s a goddamn iron chef, Will’ll have to ask him about that later), that things get rather interesting. He’d been shooed out and back to his rooms when Lecter had began the preparations, telling Will to rest as it would be a while until dinner would be served. Lecter finishes with a small flourish, probably a bit of a show for his guest if Will was being honest. Lecter wipes his hands on towel next to the cutting board to his left and unties the apron around his waist.

“You do beautiful work Dr. Lecter,” Will says, before he has a chance to stop himself, staring at the food and, secretly, Lecter’s hands.

Lecter smiles a little bit more naturally, but Will doesn’t miss its almost predatory air. “My doctorate is originally in the medical sciences, Mr. Jones, not business. Since I’ve stopped practicing I’ve transferred my passions for all things anatomical from humans to cuisine. It’s just as precise an art.” Ah, Will didn’t have to ask then. But a new question springs to mind, and William’s naivete is a perfect cover for it.

“Why did you leave medicine?” Lecter takes a step closer, eyes trained on Will’s own, and Will fights his knee jerk response to look away. It’s not as hard as it usually is; he feels captured, but more like prey than anything benign. It’s frightening and exciting all at once. Lecter is inches from him, leaning over him before he knows it, and Will’s breath catches in his throat.

Lecter glances away from Will’s eyes, takes in his face and what he can see of his neck through the open buttons of his dress shirt, and speaks low in his chest, accent thickening slightly but clear as day. “Despite my… love for working with and for the good of the human form, it is a taxing profession. I briefly considered working as a psychiatrist, as that is what my explicitly non-medical studies were centered around and what I have always had a penchant for, but opportunities are found in the most unusual of places.”

Lecter’s voice doesn’t give much, despite the supposed personal nature of the words, so Will stays back to the safe edge of the subject. “What was that you did, Dr. Lecter.” His own voice sounds husky and not at all what he wants to present to Lecter in this moment, but it seems to work. Lecter’s gaze is on his and with Lecter’s hands straying closer to his body, Will belatedly supposes it’s appropriate.

“Hannibal, please,” Lecter says before he answers, his tone nearly a whisper and closer to Will’s right now than Will would have guess. Will nods his assent. “I was a surgeon. Multidiscipline, but I was often the one they turned to for organ transplants. My attention to detail and precision were key.”

Will swallows. “A lot of risk in that, yes?”

“Far too much risk at the end, I’m afraid,” Lecter says. Will thinks he’ll come closer, prepares for it, but perhaps breathes too loudly or something similarly inane, for the next thing he knows, Lecter’s a full arms length away from him, rolling down his sleeves and grabbing their plates expertly. “Let’s eat then, shall we?”

Will nods, a little taken aback and unsure of where to go from here. Lecter ushers him into the dining room with a tilt of his head and, sadly, Will doesn’t enjoy dinner as much as he feels he should.

***

It’s four days into his trip, on Thursday evening when it happens.

Will’s heading back from the lounge he’d spent hours pretending to look over contracts in while he went over all the information in his head. He was so caught up in details that he nearly physically trips over them when he entered the conference room, only to find it dim and only occupied by Dr. Lecter, Hannibal, who has his eyes trained on him.

He stops short; those eyes have unnerved him since the beginning, yes, but he’d never in his life felt so transparent. He’s played his part perfectly, there’s no way Hannibal could know. All the same, he seems to stare into Will with a frightening intensity.

“Mr. Jones, William, Will, even, if I may be allowed,” Hannibal says as he stands, his voice low and predatory, planning. Will nods, because why not, Hannibal allowed him the use of his own first name, it’d only be customary. It might be too close, but Will has the sudden sinking feeling that he was too close to begin with.

Hannibal advances on him, there’s no other word for it, but Will’s edging forward himself. It’s his damnation, those few, tentative steps, sealing his fate when Hannibal smirks, approving. Will doesn’t reach out first, of that he’s certain, but after Hannibal’s fingers trace along his ear, curling around his neck, Will can’t be sure who moves.

There’s a high probability it’s him.

Whoever it ends up being though, doesn’t exactly matter when he has Hannibal kissing him, strong and sharp and way too hot. Hannibal’s free hand takes him by the hip and Will’s just left holding onto Hannibal’s suit jacket for dear life. He’s unsure of where to go with this, if he really should, if that niggling feeling at the back of his mind isn’t smarter than his dick right now, but Hannibal’s tongue is in his mouth and he doesn’t have to think about leading this.

They kiss for what isn’t hours, it can’t logically _be_ hours, but feels like it anyway, and Will’s knees are going weak by the time Hannibal pulls away to breathe, keeping his lips close to Will’s. Will’s knuckles are going pale with the force he’s exerting on Hannibal’s lapels, the fabric silken and no doubt wrinkled from his fingers.

Hannibal doesn’t care though; Hannibal is currently tugging the knot out of Will’s tie and unbuttoning Will’s shirt, quick, efficient, and without any reservation, stripping him to the waist with little effort. Will digs his fingers into Hannibal’s neat hair, wanting to mess _something_ up on his immaculate person they way Hannibal’s messing him up completely. Hannibal makes a displeased sort of sound but moves on, kissing Will once more as he unbuckles Will’s suit pants.

Hannibal’s not soft, anywhere, and Will’s sure he’ll hurt himself, slice his skin open on one of Hannibal’s deadly corners, but he’s not worried at all, not with Hannibal’s thigh between his legs and Hannibal’s hands on his hips. Hannibal’s touch burns him slightly, but that’s just his imagination, even as Hannibal’s fingers slide beneath the material of his trousers and push them to his ankles.

It’s late summer, but the night and room are cool and goosebumps dimple Will’s skin, not helped by Hannibal’s nails scratching lightly against his hips while Hannibal kisses him. Will’s still holding tight onto Hannibal’s jacket, distressed at how naked he is compared to Hannibal, not not having the ability to do anything about it. Hannibal slips one hand behind Will’s back, lightly dragging his fingernails across his flesh and causing him to shiver. It settles on his ass, Hannibal’s fingers just teasing the crease between his cheeks.

Will breathes out a whispered “fuck” against Hannibal’s lips and the thought freezes for half a second when he doesn’t realize if that was William or Will, but melts again when Hannibal bites his bottom lip, perhaps a tad bit too hard, and forgets about it for now. Will’s not really sure he would ever be able to separate himself from his mask in this situation, but being genuine was the most pressing thing. And god, was he ever genuine.

Will thrusts his hips forward a few times, but Hannibal purposefully doesn’t take the hint, refraining from moving his hands, even as he inches his mouth across Will’s jaw and to his neck. Hannibal nips a dark bruise into Will’s throat, low enough to be covered by his suit collar, but dark enough that it’ll take days to disappear. Will isn’t given time to process how he feels about that, how that’ll impede anything, because Hannibal’s whispering in his ear, the words curling around the shell like a caress in its own right.

“Turn around, Will.”

Will should have never allowed the nickname; he did get too close with that. But he can’t think about it right now, can’t think about _anything_ , and he trips a little when he tries to do as he’s told, his legs still wrapped up in his suit trousers. He steps out of them and his shoes,  leaving his socks for the effort to remove them would be too much for him right now, and turns, presenting his back to Hannibal, and placing his hands on the polished mahogany surface. He can see their reflections, however distorted and darkened. Hannibal’s a blur behind him and he focuses on that until he hears the lid of small jar coming off.

“What is tha- ah!” Will bites his lip too hard when Hannibal sinks his teeth into the delicate skin where neck meets shoulder and drags slick fingers from his perineum to his hole without a warning. Hannibal sets the jar to the right of him, giving Will a view of what it is; natural softening oil for leather.

Hannibal’s driving gloves. Hannibal’s _leather_ driving gloves.

Will groans, briefly entertains a fantasy of Hannibal specifically wearing those gloves while touching him, but Hannibal’s are moving up and down, teasing and catching and being absolutely torturous and there’s literally no hope of keeping up a cover, but people are generally predictable during sex anyway and then William is certainly gone when one of Hannibal’s fingers finally enters him.

“You have to relax, Will,” Hannibal says, husky and warm, but otherwise unaffected. Will realizes he didn’t even get Hannibal out of his jacket and he flushes out of something that isn’t quite arousal but isn’t all embarrassment either. He does though, relaxes as best as he can with the muscles of his thighs flexing and his arms straining. Hannibal is mouthing at his neck and he’s ridiculously hard, his cock bumping into the carved edge of the table with every other movement of Hannibal’s hand.

Will pants and tries to corral his words, make his tongue work properly as he stares down at the table. “O-okay, more, god,” Will says, more to his chest than anything. He supposes he was successful, but the whine in his tone is something he can’t shake. Hannibal breaths into his hair as he adds a second finger, and Will keens, unhappy with how Hannibal’s other hand refuses to move from his hip. Will’s arms shake, just a bit, so he bends them until his weight is on his elbows and his forehead is pressed against the wood in front of him. This moves him against Hannibal’s hand and he moans wordlessly into the table.

Will has a hard time feeling that it’s alright to demand something from Hannibal; he’s not the type to give anything he doesn’t want to. Despite his usual lack of forwardness, the need that burns through him in this situation is both insistent and silent in the face of Hannibal’s commands and apparent experience. He’s too skilled with his fingers to be without either.

Hannibal pulls them out right then, leaving Will feeling open and very, very much unfulfilled. there’s a squeak of wood and plastic and Will realizes what Hannibal’s doing, even with turning to glance at him pulling up the chair. It’s expensive, more leather in a color that matches the table in front of his blurry eyes, and Will can hear both the material and the joints of it squeak as Hannibal settles into it. Hannibal grabs the oil again; Will hears him unzip and slick himself with it, the sound sending unbidden shivers through him.

Will’s always had a better imagination than eyesight.

Hannibal sets the oil back on the table and takes Will by the hips again, one hand slipping slightly more than the other. He pulls, and Will follows, his elbows scooting to the edge of the table and his ass settling in Hannibal’s lap. Hannibal’s cock nudges between his cheeks in a tantalizing echo of what his fingers had just done, and Will wonders if the sound he just made was an actual mewl. He’d complain, admittedly only to himself, that he wasn’t the heroine of a harlequin novel, but seeing as he was currently fraternizing with a ‘technical’ business partner and poible criminal in _conference room_ , he really hasn’t a leg to stand on.

When Hannibal squeezes his fingers and tells him to “take his own time,” Will doesn’t feel like he has legs at all.

Will moves himself up slightly, reaching a hand behind him to position Hannibal exactly where he needs him to be, bears down, and relaxes himself. Hannibal didn’t prepare him enough for this, it’s a stretch his muscles resist at first, and his cock droops in response. But Hannibal finally, _finally_ , reaches a hand around and strokes him, too slowly and too softly to do anything but torment him, and yet it still makes the whole thing much easier.

Will inches, further, moving himself in small circles rather than completely up and down until he’s seat fully in Hannibal’s lap. The hand not on his cock moves up to his chest and pulls him back, Will’s back meeting Hannibal’s chest, flush except for the fine silk of Hannibal’s suit. Will hopes Hannibal doesn’t mind replacing this one, Will doubts it’ll make it out of this any less than ruined.

Will’s legs are spread, his feet on the carpet bracketing in Hannibal’s Italian leather shoes. Hannibal mouths against his neck and noses at his hair, making him tremble. His strokes haven’t changed, and again, Will can’t find the courage to do anything but take what Hannibal gives him.

“Hannibal,” he says, voice weak and hushed, and Hannibal hums in response, speeding his hand up minutely. He’s staring out at the multicolored lights of rich Hong Kong, miles away from Alana and work and home; caught, instead, in Hannibal Lecter’s web of hidden truths and sugary temptation.

“Move, Will, you’ll feel better,” Hannibal whispers to him, putting Will’s pleasure in his own hands, but keeping him at Hannibal’s direction all the same. Will does so, without much in him to complain, and if he could gather two thoughts together would wonder if this is something Hannibal gets out of sex, the control. Will payed right into that, and at the current moment, has no regrets.

Will’s legs tire quickly, despite Hannibal’s hips making small movements to match his too slow pace. “Hannibal,” Will pants into the room, not quite sure how to say anything other than his name, let alone tell Hannibal anything about how he was feeling. Hannibal huffs, a biting sort of sound that must have been a groan somewhere in his chest and lifts Will onto his feet and pushes him back onto the table.

“Easier, Will?” Hannibal asks, his voice both too loud and too quiet in the suddenly cavernous room. The sounds of their bodies moving bounce off the bare walls and Will can hear everything, even as he can’t do anything about it. Hannibal’s thrusts are quick and succinct, his breath damp and warm between his shoulders. Will bites his fingers and moans into them instead of risking dirtying up the table more than he already is.

Hannibal’s hand finally speeds up to match his rhythm, a counterpoint that quickly gets too maddening, and Will’s hips work both back into Hannibal’s body and forward into his fingers. Will stretches the hand not currently keeping himself quiet back behind him to grip Hannibal’s sleeve and pull. Hannibal follows the insistence and leans farther onto Will, nipping at his ear.

“Are you close, Will?” Will whines even as he thinks that Hannibal has got to stop using his name or he’s not just going to come, he’s going to _die_ and it’ll hurt. He nods into the table and Hannibal’s fingers tighten around his cock. Will squawks into his fingers, a sound that has no sexual appeal at all, and comes, painting the mahogany table in front of him white. He’s immediately ashamed of that, even as Hannibal continues to move inside him. He’s full and warm and dirty, but it’s good still, even to his overstimulated body.

Hannibal actually kisses him, softly between his shoulder blades, but Will’s too sex stupid to notice it much, and Hannibal covers it with a bite as he orgasms, leaning heavily on him. The edge of the table digs into Will’s stomach and Hannibal is too much weight for his aching body.

Hannibal breaths deeply, ruffling his hair before standing up and pulling out. Will gives himself a few more moments to gather his scattered consciousness and get over how empty and cold he feels.. Hannibal cleans them both of with a monogrammed handkerchief, but Will still feels slightly spread too thin, and he feels too much like a broken doll as he numbly pulls his clothes on. Will tries to work through how he can feel Hannibal's come drip down his thigh.

“I suppose it’s time to head home,” Hannibal says, wrinkled and yet still as eloquent as ever. Will nods, wiping as his eyes. Hannibal settles his arm across WIll’s shoulders and grabs his briefcase. “We still have to have dinner.”

***

The don’t speak of it, even after Will cleans up, even as they murmur pleasantries across yet another impeccably prepared supper, though Hannibal keeps his eyes on him so much more than he already did. It’s harrowing and hot and Will has to restrain himself from asking for a little more, something else he shouldn't allow yet wants to desperately.

Will spends most of the meal silently wondering if Alana’s rejection sent him here, or rather, if it didn’t at least push him towards Hannibal in some capacity. Jack would have his head if he found out, and Will’s stomach turns slightly at how easy it was to forget about everything, including looking at any of his ‘research’ or files the company had on Bruce. How easy it was to let Hannibal have him. He couldn’t be that affected could he?

And what did Hannibal get from all of this? Will takes another bite of the main dish’s tender meat, thinking as he chews, not needing to work too hard to create an air of awkwardness to suppress their usual conversation. Hannibal doesn’t push, but does stare and Will realizes that Hannibal's gaze has followed him this entire trip. There have been very few moments Will has had to himself, and most of them have been in Hannibal's home.

This is what Hannibal has orchestrated.

Will's hand freezes, just for a second, on the way to his mouth and Hannibal's eyes narrow just a fraction. Will clears his throat and sets his fork down, wiping his lips with his napkin to hide his face, lest he give himself up. He twists his expression into grimace and slips on a placating tone.

"Dinner is delicious, like always, but I don't feel all that well. I think I'll turn in." Hannibal nods and moves to stand, ever the gracious host, but Will waves him off with a pained smile.

Hannibal burns a hole in Will's back as he leaves the dining room.

Will does not rush back to the guest rooms, but it's a close thing. He makes sure to lock and bar the door behind him, taking every possible precaution before grabbing his phone and ducking into the en suite. This call can't be overheard.

He dials Jack's 'civilian' number and curses the fact that he didn't think to load and set his pistol before hunkering down in the jacuzzi tub. It rings just three times, but Will's almost whispering curses at it when he hears Jack's voice.

"What's wrong Will?"

Will sucks in a harsh breath. "Hannibal's in on something, Jack, and he knows I'm here for it."

"Hannibal?" Jack's voice is calm, confirming, but there is a stern question lurking in his voice. Will clenches his hands and bends over, strangling a gasp when his back protests and speaking before Jack can ask after it.

“Lecter, the management director, he knows something, knows that I’m here for it, and I’m in his house right now, you have to gather the team and _get me out_.”

“Will, do you have proof?”

It’s a standard and very important question but it’s also infuriating. “There are a few recordings of Lecter and Bruce Shen discussing something related to their ‘underground maneuvering’ which I sent to an analyst at lunch, and Lecter, he- he has a basement…”

“Will…” It’s a warning, yet it’s also a plea, somewhere in the word. _Be careful_ , it doesn’t say, but wants to. _What else aren’t you telling me?_

“I’ll go looking Jack, I will, but I need your men here tomorrow night or more than my cover will be blown, alright?”

"Can you send me the address? To Lecter's home, as he seems to prefer to be absent from public records. We have the BioMediShen office on surveillance already, you'll have to to keep us updated of your location, you understand?”

Will takes a long shuddery breath and nods before he realizes that Jack can’t see him. Jack isn’t _here_. “The second I hang up, you’ll have it. I’ll take a look around tonight, when Lecter falls asleep. I can’t risk it right now.”

“You watch yourself Will, and send me anything new. We’ll be there in eighteen hours.”

Jack hangs up and Will stands, cursing between his teeth. He runs a gentle hand across his back and regrets ever taking this case, ever thinking he was emotionally stable enough to get through this. He moves into the bedroom, loads his pistol, and waits.

Tonight will be the longest night of Will’s life.

***

It’s past three in the morning when Will finally takes his chance, his gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans the way every procedural cop show hero is not supposed to do. He thanks whatever gods exist for wealth and newly constructed buildings, for neither his door nor the floor squeaks when he shuffles quietly from his rooms. He wishes he’d paid more attention to the pristine, museum-quality design when he’d gotten lost previously, but gathers up his memories and does his best.

It isn’t too much of a struggle to find the basement door.

Will figures that the basement is nearer to his guest rooms than Hannibal’s own, though he doesn’t fail to notice the proximity to the kitchen. Makes sense; one could keep both wine and secrets underground and none would be the wiser. Hong Kong has seen it share of basements constructed for nefarious purposes, and Will hopes Hannibal’s just odd and possibly involved in the black market instead of anything a basement would need to hide.

Human trafficking was a nasty business, and the thought of Hannibal personally and intrinsically involved in the movement of abducted people makes Will taste bile in his throat. Hannibal’s hands could be clean or soaked through with blood; either way, they’d been all over Will only hours ago and he’d liked it. He’d liked it so much.

He stretches his neck in an effort to avoid this wandering thought and sets to work on the lock. It takes ten tortuous minutes and two broken fingernails to pop the door open, but he's behind it in twenty seconds, pushing it closed with a soft click. He flips the lock closed again and starts down the stairs, dread pooling in his stomach with every quiet step.

It seems to take forever for Will’s feet to touch the stone floor of the basement, his hands moving across the wall for a light switch. He couldn’t risk the one for the stairs next to the door and he hopes he doesn’t end up with a broken neck for his troubles. Will gropes for another switch blindly, hoping he didn’t miscalculate, before his fingers brush it and flood the room with eerie yellow light. There’s not much down here; wine racks line most of the walls, there’s a solid wood table and large washbasin that must be for preparing meat, and two large freezers against the opposite side of the room. It’s sterile looking and bled dry of real color; even the stark contrast of the wine bottles seems to fade into the blank background.

Will takes a deep breath and scans the walls, ruling out any sort of hidden chamber or other ridiculousness as he knocks gently on the walls. He checks out the wine racks, but their just as innocuous as any unopened wine would be, though the collection seems expensive and well kept. Will manages to force himself to the table and the sink quickly, though his mind continues to hinder the sort of pace he really should be affording. The table is large, thick, and, if Will isn’t seeing things, lightly stained. Will supposes Hannibal could be getting his meat in bulk, especially as he seems to import it, which would explain the freezers and the preparation area.

It seems so much more sinister than that, and Will feels like that explanation is just him trying to feel better about himself, about his obvious mistakes. So instead of turning around, going right back up those stairs and sleeping until backup comes, he steps slowly toward the first freezer. It’s industrial-sized and surprisingly clean looking, the silver finish polished to an unnatural shine despite it’s etched surface. It’s not as cold to the touch that Will thought it would be when he grabs the handle, hisshaking fingers covered in the sleeve of his shirt, though the chill, stagnant air of the basement might be the cause of that. Will’s breath rattles when he inhales, and he opens it.

It’s common fare, if undoubtedly more expensive that anything Will could buy at the local grocer back home. There’s beef, lamb, something that possibly looks like rabbit if he knew exactly what rabbit looked like skinned, even a thick leg of a mountain animal he’s never seen. Will’s racing pulse calms somewhat, his heart returning to it’s normal hiccuping pattern. He turns to the next one a little surer, thinking about how Will could have profiled him wrong, he doesn’t know much about his past really, Hannibal was so circumspect about his past. But Hannibal could just be caught up in all this unaware.

He moves to the second one and Will strangles a scream in his throat, nearly dropping the freezer’s lid on his own fingers.

Dull blue eyes stare up at him from the violet-tinged face of a young woman through the clear plastic she’s wrapped in. She isn’t the only person in there, and there are pieces of her missing while bodiless limbs and flesh are stacked around her.He can’t guess, can’t entertain the idea, but he has to think there are half a dozen people in front of him. They look female, at least the ones mostly intact, and this is suddenly much deeper than simple trafficking. All those times Hannibal insisted on dinner, only taking him out for lunch… it seemed a cost-effective measure for entertaining a semi-important foreign business guest.

Will retches, but he can’t do that here, so he holds it down and he closes the lid as fast as he can without making a sound.

Will’s across the room much slower than he cares to be. He flips the light off, the dead girl’s pale eyes burned into his vision as he hurries recklessly up the stairs in the dark. He slips a few times, once crashing his knee hard enough into the rail that he can feel it bleeding into his pant leg. He unlocks the door and pulls it open with slipping fingers, barely remembering to relock it before he shuts it again.

Will is quick in returning to his rooms, shock keeping himself from rushing or making too much noise. He does make it to the bathroom before he vomits, curling around the toilet with his head pressed against it’s cool porcelain, ignoring the tears he feels he deserves. He cleans himself up, patches up his knee, and texts Jack a set of messages that detail what he’s just discovered before falling into the guest bed and three hours of fitful, distressed sleep before he can even check if Jack responded.

***

The next’s days tension is so high, Will feels it smother him.

Hannibal looks at him with assessing eyes when tries to hide his gentle limp, asking Will if he’s alright. Will tells him that he slipped in the shower that morning, that’s all, and attempts to shovel down the simple breakfast Hannibal’s prepared. He stays away from the meat.

Will begs off all of Hannibal’s questions, claiming to still be a bit under the weather, and they leave in relative silence. Will tries to keep up William Johnson’s cheerful persona, but he can’t help how far he sits from the driver’s side in Hannibal’s car.

The office day drags on forever as Will avoids interacting with Hannibal more than he has too, Hannibal’s expression darkening significantly throughout the day. He receives an email from an analyst specifying that a few words from Bruce have led Interpol to a human trafficking hub connected to BioMediShen and have prepared charges against him, thanks to Will's recon work. The triumph does nothing to ease the Gordian Knot his insides have twisted themselves into, and the continual paranoia tires him too quickly.

Jack sends him banal messages about his health and the weather that, though only a simple code between the two of them, become more difficult to unravel the more stressed he gets.

When night falls and everyone but himself, Hannibal, and Bruce have headed home, Will sends the heads up to Jack. He’s shaking as he types it, nearly dropping his phone before he’s finished, and heads up to Bruce’s office ahead of them. Hannibal said he had a meeting with the CEO before they would leave, his eyes daring Will to do anything while his mouth spoke only plain requests.

Will is silent as he approaches the large office, it’s doors frosted glass and lit from within so he hangs back in the shadows. He’s reminded, sharply, of his first day here, a mere five days before, and his breath catches in his throat.

Bruce seems to be shouting, his dark shape moving emphatically compared to Hannibal’s lighter one, his burgundy suit making his silhouette echo a vicious deep red against the glass. Jack texts him that there’s a team coming up the last few flights of stairs and Will couldn’t breathe now even if he wanted to.

Will thinks they’re speaking -well in Bruce’s case, shouting- in English but he can’t get closer without risking being found. Hannibal seems placating, but isn’t actively working to calm Bruce. Will silently urges Jack faster.

“This will ruin us Hannibal!” Bruce whisper-screams through those doors, smacking something hard against his desk, and Will winces away from the sound. Bruce’s voice is distraught, high and reedy in agitation and slight terror. Hannibal’s voice is not nearly coherent enough for Will to continue understanding, but it seems too detached to be soothing.

A hand taps his shoulder, making Will’s heart beat its way out of his chest until Jack’s face comes into his vision. Jack points at the doors, a line of armed and armored agents behind him, and Will nods.

Bruce has stopped pacing and now Hannibal’s moving around the room, his form growing against the glass as he nears it, turning him twisted and demonic. Will wants to blame something, his imagination, psychosis, anything, but no, the figure he paints on those glass doors is one good Christians speak against. Will briefly wishes he believed in a god.

“Come out, Shen, Lecter, you’re under arrest for human trafficking and money laundering.” Jack yells across the lobby space, and Hannibal stills.

Nobody moves, until Hannibal rushes to the back of the office and Jack signals to the closest agent to fire. It won’t be lethal, it’s aimed near the ceiling,but the doors shatter and both Bruce and Hannibal dive under Bruce’s desk. Hannibal stands, a gun in his hand and his hair hanging in his face. It didn’t even look like that when they fucked, and Will wonders if this is jealously he’s feeling, but doesn’t get a chance to find out.

Hannibal shoots at him and Will’s shoulder explodes into pain. Jack shoves him behind the agents moving in, but Will yells at them to stop. Hannibal looks him in the eyes and Will stares right back, for the first time since he met the man being able to bare it. He clutches at the hole in his shoulder, pressing the fabric of his suit jacket against the wound.

“Did you?” Will asks, his voice betraying him and making Hannibal smile. It’s cruel and biting, Will’s resolve cracks.

“I did say I moved my interest from humans to cuisine.” Hannibal’s lips curl around his teeth, around the words, and it stings.

“I didn’t think you meant it quite so literally.” Will’s nonchalance is an excruciating act, but it’s his only option.

“Yes, well, we weren’t entirely honest with each other, were we, Mr. Graham?” Hannibal says, venomously, and only it's Jack’s presence behind him that keeps him standing. “I was honest about one thing, however. I truly hope you enjoyed my... hospitality.” Hannibal licks his lips, not leering but still sending horrifying shivers down Will’s spine all the same.

Will knows he’s going to remember it, for a very long time to come, how it felt to be swept away by Hannibal’s charm, how he felt against him. It will never be pleasant, will never feel like it did when Will, for one second, thought he could make something out of his fucked up job. Will takes a step forward and Hannibal takes a single corresponding one back, closer to the floor to ceiling windows that paint a beautiful picture of the Hong Kong skyline.

No one will know about what happens here. No one will learn about the kind CEO and his right hand man with a taste for women, in the worst ways imaginable, and how Will Graham almost fell to pieces on the top floor of one of Hong Kong’s most venerated high rises.

Will takes Jacks gun from his hand and pulls the trigger at Hannibal’s chest, the impact sending him through the glass and into the silhouette Will so admired.

Will can’t see the blood mix with the wine colored fabric of Hannibal’s suit, but he does see the look of dawning shock come across Hannibal’s face. Hannibal seems to fall in slow motion, finally toppled from his perch above his wretched prey. Will stares out into the dark, starless night, the jagged edges of the broken window framing the sky and all the different people who’ll move on with their lives after this. After all of it.

The wind from outside and the cacophony of agents moving into to arrest Bruce and assess damage drown out the crazed sob Will pushes out. Jack moves back into his vision before Will falls to his knees, checking him over and putting more pressure onto the wound in his left shoulder.

For once in Will’s short and lonely life, he doesn’t know what’s next.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Wrong Direction](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1231282) by [lick_j](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lick_j/pseuds/lick_j)




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